


See You Again

by lookingforatardis



Series: The Blank Years [5]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reunions (sort of), The Blank Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: To think, four days ago I had no idea where he was and now I was in the same building as him. It was exhilarating in the kind of way that set your soul on fire and chilled it all at once. [Oliver finds out where Elio is playing and goes to watch]Part of a series of fics from the time where Elio and Oliver have no direct contact, otherwise known as The Blank Years.





	See You Again

**Author's Note:**

> This one's been a long time coming. Sorry about that. I got busy with a ton of stuff, but hopefully this is worth the wait.   
> Note on the timeline: This takes place during the eighth of silence, which means it's year ten since the summer- Oliver's sons are 7 and 5; Aaron is 4.   
> There are 9 years of silence total.

It was foggy the day I read the news. I remember because I'd gotten to work late since the roads were difficult to see. It had a certain smell, the fog, that reminded me of rain in October despite it being late February. Snow covered the grass, snowmen scattered across the school grounds from students passing time between classes. I was wearing the hat an old student gave me as a parting gift, a coffee in my hand as I walked through the frigid air to my office building. I'd sat down like any other day and pulled the newspaper out from my briefcase to skim it while warming up. This was my ritual—I’d sip my coffee and read the paper until I felt prepared to face the day, and then I'd go through what I needed to accomplish (lesson plans, research, etc.). It was a good system for me. It kept my mind from wandering on days when that was all it wanted.

I'd developed a nasty habit of checking the paper for shows and performances coming to town. Mary enjoyed plays, though she wasn't a fan of concerts. They bored her, she said. I'd look for plays to tell her about and skim the visiting musical talent for myself. A part of me knew why I did it, but the rest of me enjoyed denial far too much to acknowledge the reasoning. I gained a sort of sick satisfaction every time I didn't see his name, as if it was the universe reassuring me that there was no need to think of him anymore, that walking away wasn't such a mistake after all.

The day the fog overtook the campus, I thumbed through the paper, almost missing it. I was folding it back up to toss on my couch when the name jumped out and stopped my heart. _Featuring renowned international pianist, Elio Perlman, the ensemble's latest addition._ I remember looking at the calendar. I remember calling a colleague of mine who had asked me if I'd like to go to on a writer's retreat this weekend. I remember telling him in a voice that was not my own that I would no longer be able to make it. I remember calling the train station and buying a ticket. I remember doing all of this, all before my coffee grew cold.

I refrained from telling Mary; it was an hour and a half train ride to get to the venue where he was playing, and I'd had an old friend who lived in the city that said I could crash on his couch. She already believed I was going to spend the night at the retreat, so I figured she wouldn't question me about disappearing. This was something I had to do for myself, and it would hurt her too much if I had to explain why.

It had been three months since I learned of Aaron's existence. I had spoken to Pro. Pearlman since, but we never discussed the topic again. Another invisible line we wouldn't cross. I didn't even know if he had ended up moving to America.

I remember all of this as I sit in the crowd waiting for the concert to begin, replaying the memory in my mind. To think, four days ago I had no idea where he was and now I was in the same building as him. It was exhilarating in the kind of way that set your soul on fire and chilled it all at once.

I want to look around for curly haired four-year-old’s, but I stop myself, knowing it would only make me insane. The lights dim and I feel alive for the first time since hearing his son's laughter over the phone, his hands hitting the keys, Pro speaking _his_ name to me for the first time in years. He was here, _Elio_ , just behind the curtain. It lifts and with it, all my yesterdays until there is only a summer where he and I are together under trees and cloaked in glances and secrets. They say something, his name, and he's there, my god he's there, he's walking on stage in a suit and he's there and his hair is a little longer than I remember but he's there and his steps still have that indescribable rhythm and his smile, god his smile. I could survive a lifetime on that smile alone. He gives a short nod and lifts his hands in a small thankful gesture and waves to the side of the stage, his grin growing beyond what it was, the light hitting his eyes and he's beautiful, he's so beautiful, even better than my dreams. I want to look to the side he waved at, I want to see his family, I want to see his child, but I can't move. It occurs to me that my breathing is staggered and tears have begun pooling in the corners of my eyes but I can't bring myself to care because he's _here_ , and I’m _here,_ and suddenly there’s an us again because _we_ are here together.

He sits down and stretches his fingers, the movement I can see from here, perhaps because I'd watched him do it so many times and knew to look. I watch as curls fall into his face delicately, ache to push them back, to feel him against me once again. The music starts and I'm lost, so fucking lost. He's everywhere in the notes he plays, the subtle shift of his shoulders, the exaggerated press of his feet against petals. He's in the atmosphere, the awed silence, the strings which carry the harmony, in the ache deep within the minor keys. I can't breathe, he's taken all the air from my lungs and used it as wavelengths to transport his music into the lives of everyone here. I feel as though I might sob when it's announced he'll play an original piece, then I do when the melody strikes and I think of Italy, of our summer, the nights we held one another in love and dried tears to forget the expiration date we knew our moments had. His song pulls me back to kisses in hallways and espadrilles flopping against pavement, to the sway of his hips when we danced the last night, the sunburn he soothed with aloe on my shoulders without my even asking. It was light like the pop songs that summer and dark like the tears against my shoulder when he begged me to stay. It’s the light that his us when the sun came up the night we refused to go to sleep and the scattered beams reflecting off the water when I was in heaven and he watched. It shatters me and stiches me back together, and when he turns with tears in his eyes to bow, I can't stop the emotion from overtaking me.

He once told me we wasted so many days. God, he has no idea. He has no idea how many we'd wasted.

I'd go to him afterwards, I was sure of it. I'd find him and I'd tell him I still remembered everything about him, that I knew the song was for me, that I wanted him after all these years, my _cor cordium_ , heart of hearts. I'd find him and I'd make this all better, I'd make him mine.

The show continues, and I feel myself falling apart with every passing moment, having to tear my eyes from him to keep sane. I search the side of the audience he'd waved to earlier, desperate for anything, just a glance, just _something_. All I saw were suits and earrings, no children, line after line of—

Oh god, oh _god._ Third row, second seat. So small he was standing, bouncing, being pulled down by firm arms, brown curly hair everywhere, a tiny suit on his frame. God. It was him. It had to be him. If he would just turn, perhaps I could see, maybe he looked like him, I didn't know, it could be anyone, but it _couldn't_ , it had to be him, it had to be Aaron. The arms which held him were male but the hands that smoothed his hair afterwards were that of the first seat, a woman's, younger than Elio, striking beauty. The boy took to her more than the man. Just turn, damn it. Please, just—

The music hits a crescendo and I can't see, tears forming in my eyes. It was rare for music to pull me this way. I suppose it hadn't since he'd played Bach for me so many years ago, and then I realize, then it hits me—

_Bach, dedicated to his brother._

The cadenza, the melody that had haunted me for a decade, it was being played in all its clarity, brightly, softly, delicately. "Oh my god," I can't help the words escape my lips, the woman sitting to my left eyeing my tear stained cheeks.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she whispers. I shake my head, she had no idea, she couldn't possibly understand that this was the most beautiful version of this piece ever created, that she was hearing something miraculous, something precious, something I couldn't stop thinking about every time I attended one of these things and they dared to play anything by Bach. It was him, it was Elio in a song, and the thought overwhelms me as much now as it did then when I heard him play it on the guitar the first time. The subtly brings me to tears yet again and I need him, I need him more than I anticipated, and I think that perhaps I always knew that if I saw him again it would be like this, but experiencing the weight of his hands against keys and the sway of his body was too much.

When it's over, I can't move. I tell myself to gather strength, to stand, to applaud, but he's drained me and the anxiety of him seeing me in a crowd washes over me like a cool blanket. People begin leaving, walking away, attending the small reception no doubt. I know I must follow in order to see him again, and I needed to, to see him again. I find my gravity and walk with the herd, following close enough that their energy sustains me. I peer through the crowd desperately, searching for his eyes, his hair, his laughter. I'd recognize it, I was sure of it, the sound would be breathtaking even now, I was sure.

"Papa!" I hear to my right, my eyes following the sound, anxiously hoping, just this once, that luck was on my side. I can barely see so I push past a small gathering around the cellist, their bodies moving just in time for me to see him, that curly haired boy from the third row, skipping.

My heart falls to my feet in an instant and I'm surprised my body doesn't follow. He had his smile, god he had his smile! His smile, and his hair, and his nose! His little nose, oh my god. It was him, it was Aaron, it was his son. I watch him skip, graceful like his father, his father, oh god. He runs into his arms and I fall against a nearby table, catching myself, holding my body up just barely, Elio's arms wrapping tightly around the boy with a bright smile. He says something in Italian and the boy nuzzles against his neck. I've never seen anything like it, the joy on his face, on either of their faces, the young boy pressing his hands to either side of Elio's cheeks and giggling.

I could have had this, the thought echoing in the back of my head.

The woman who'd been sitting with him walks up to them and laughs, the sound cutting me like razors in my chest. He nods at her and turns his attention back to Aaron. She has a ring, perhaps they've gotten engaged in the time since I'd talked to Pro last. Or perhaps she wasn't Rowan, perhaps she was a family friend, perhaps she was nothing, god I hoped she was nothing. The man who'd sat with them doesn't wear a ring but he might not be Rowan either, perhaps _she's_ with him, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Aaron reaches to her and shakes his head wildly, his arms waving around, Elio struggling to hold onto him. The woman kisses Aaron's cheeks and then leans over to kiss Elio's, the man nodding curtly. I want to tell him, I want to go to him now, but their circle prevents me from doing so. He's happy, I realize, truly happy. He looks blissed, even. I could ruin it, it might shatter the moment he saw me—he hadn't spoken to me in years, I had no guarantee that he wanted me anymore than I had reason to believe he would even remember. That he would recognize me.

They begin walking, stopping a few times to shake hands with people who want to acknowledge his musical talent. He puts his son down and holds his hand, the boy hopping around with a smile at his father. How many nights did he keep him up? Was he always this energetic, or was it just the music that thrilled him so? Did Elio mind? Did he enjoy it, let it fuel him on the days he felt like giving up the same way my boys had done for me?

I watch him go, unable to move. They hover outside for a moment while they wait for a cab and the boy is telling a story with his hands, and I wish I knew what he said, why he entranced Elio, amused the woman, and bothered the man who was still trying to flag down a ride. Elio laughs and glances back into the room—dear lord, he's seen me. He's seen me, I'm sure of it—did he recognize me? Did his eyes linger long enough to see the pain in mine, the longing? Was he still lost for me, as I was for him? He returns his eyes to his son and smiles, as if nothing happened, as if my heart wasn't in my throat, as if he didn't just obliterate any chance I ever had at recovering from the evening. He mustn't have seen me, I must have imagined it, he wouldn't act so indifferent…would he?

It's hours before I find sleep, his eyes haunting me, his melody— _his_ melody, the one he wrote—echoing in my dreams. His son is skipping and there's snow on the ground, my boys are making snow angels and I look at him, laughing, lost in thought. I wake in a cold sweat and shower slowly, letting the heat erase him from me, knowing it was no use. I'd never forget.

They'd passed out leaflets of their shows last night, of follow ups and guest appearances. I'd searched it already for his name but came up empty. I thought of calling the number on the back, of asking if he had any other appearances, but thought better of it as the coffee brewed. I sit with it now and sip quietly, wondering if I'd ever see him again, if _he'd_ ever see me again. I think of his playing, of his back moving under his suit coat, the way his body arched, how he laughed in the reception hall. I would, I realize. I'd get on a plane if that's what it took, I'd go to Italy and wait for him at the holidays, if that's what it came to. I'd see him again. I had to.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, there you go! He sees little Aaron and Elio and melts a little. I'm trying to decide the next TBY fic, I'm not sure where in the timeline it'll fall. Still working it out, this whole series is a messy work in progress haha I'm so glad you're reading though, it means a lot!


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